


Bound by Duty; Bound by Joy

by Mirkwoodmaiden



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirkwoodmaiden/pseuds/Mirkwoodmaiden
Summary: During the Ring War Faramir falls victim to more than just the physical wounds he took trying to retake Osgiliath.  The Black Breath tries to claim him and only the Hands of the Healer, the King can bring him back.  In killing the Witch King Éowyn is wounded and though Aragorn can heal her body, He cannot heal her spirit.  Only Faramir can.  First chapter is a bit grim but the following chapters are more optimistic.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Bound by Duty

March 3019 TA, Minas Tirith

Faramir had been heartened by speaking with Mithrandir though the news he related to the Wizard had been troubling indeed. Cirith Ungol. The very name of the place cast a shadow upon any soul hearing it. He thought of the two valiant hobbits alone on along that very path. Sobering indeed. He sighed, his path that he traced now up to the Citadel threw a smaller but no less disheartening shadow upon his own soul. His father. Boromir was always his son. Faramir never was. For reasons too painful for both of them to acknowledge Denethor could barely even look his second son in the eye for more than a few seconds. They say it was because of Faramir’s mother, Finduilas. They say that Denethor loved her greatly and the hurt he took upon her death so wounded him that he could never again look upon Faramir who favoured her much without pain. Faramir was only five when she had died. He remembered her in the way only a five year could remember. Her smell, full of the sunlight at least to a five year old mind and flowers, and love. He remembered her love. That stayed within his heart. And her sadness. That stayed as well. He never spoke of her, except to Boromir, he understood and never mocked him for his tears and melancholy. He paused, now he never would speak of her again. Boromir was no more. His beloved brother was gone from this world under circumstances he still could not fully accept. It was a pain that wrapped his heart, almost curtailing each beat but he fought to go on. There was no other choice. Duty required it. Now with Osgiliath fallen and the ring of power placed out of reach by his own decision, he walked with purpose unsure of his reception. No, that was a lie. His reception was quite certain but he would face up to it yet again as he always had and always would. As a child and even a young man, his heart had yearned for something else, some sign of love or approval, but now he simply braced for the inevitable.

The inevitable was quick in coming. It cut him deeply to see the pain etched on his father’s face. He would comfort his father if he could but he knew it would be spurned. Boromir’s death fell hard upon him. Compassion for his father’s pain mixed with the sure knowledge that his own death would not evince these same emotions, he spoke what he could not seem to stop himself from saying,

“You wish now that our places had been reversed, That I had died and Boromir had lived.”

“Yes, I wish that indeed.”

Those whispered words. Pain, familiar in its course and pattern, but no less virulent for its familiarity, ripped through Faramir. He knew to expect no different but it hurt in equal measure and placed another feather of disappointment on an overburdened heart.

He heard his father say, “I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought-not if there is a captain here who has still has the courage to do his lord’s will.”

The words fell on Faramir’s already weary soul with a death-soft finality. Silence and then a quiet, “I do not oppose your will, sire. Since that you are robbed of Boromir,” Faramir heard himself saying, “I will go in his stead” it was every thus between Father and Son, “At least this son,” he thought as he felt his lifeforce dwindling away, “I will go. But if I return think better of me.” With that he turned on his heel to prepare for almost certain destruction.

“That will depend upon the manner of your return.”

Faramir paused. Eyes closed briefly against the pain, He placed one foot in front of the other. Duty pulled him forward. There was nothing left behind.

~*~*~*~*~

Riding out to retake Osgiliath bound by duty, bound by a need that didn’t bear closer examination, Faramir heard Mithrandir implore him, “Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness. Your father loves you and he will remember before the end”

Faramir yearned to believe that avow, but he just couldn’t, but it mattered not. He replied in a voice deadened with suppressed pain and dull duty, “Where does my loyalty lie except here? This is the City of the Men of Numenor. I will gladly give my life for it.” The plaintive quality in his old friend’s voice should have weakened Faramir’s resolve but the time was past when that might have changed Faramir’s fate. He was bound to do this thing; there was no other choice. He was trapped within this life, bound to act as he must. Flowers fell to pavement. When the arrows started to fall and his men started to die he felt, as an arrow pierced his armor, a strange detachment that grew as time passed. Outwardly he could hear himself call out orders and try to rally his men under the hail of bolts meant to end their lives. But inwardly as his men fell and part of his soul cried out for their unfair fate, another part drifted away moving slowly toward a blinking grayness calling to his very soul. He felt cold, so cold. He wandered around this grey place where time itself seem to have no meaning. He saw from a distance the field of slaughter, he saw himself barking orders and yet he was also viewing it from afar. He wanting to rejoin the battle to help his men or at least die with them. The greyness would not allow that however. He watched from the mist the horror of slaughter.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A far away ratcheting up of the massive main gate and Faramir was vaguely aware he was being dragged in by his horse. He closed his eyes. Within his mind he saw grey mist, beyond he saw his body battered with bolt fletchings having pierced his armor. He felt himself jostled as he was carried on a bier up to the Citadel, but curiously there was no pain, until he saw a sight he never believed possible. His father running, frantic and in tears, for him. Faramir tried to call to him. Tried to show him he was not mortally wounded. He looked again and felt rather than heard his father cry “Faramir! Say not that he has fallen. I sent my son forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril.” Again Faramir tried to reach out through the mists tried to reach his father, to comfort him and tell him not to despair, but to no avail. Faramir’s heart broke anew and he fell into hopelessness, the grey mists growing thicker with each tear dropping.

Despair. A despair so acute as to cripple him. Faramir could view from afar his father’s torment but could give him no comfort. Emotions pouring forth, spilling out into the cold light of day. His father, once so noble and so strong, devolving into a tormented wretch forsaking all he held dear except, at the last, his love for his second son. A love that Faramir had ever yearned to see and but had given up hope had ever really existed. Yet, combined with he knew not what as he had never been in his father’s consul and knew nothing of the inner workings of his mind, it was this love that was proving his undoing. Faramir watched brokenhearted from the grey shadows his mind had traveled to, the love and emotion that his father was finally showing and he could do nothing in aid of. He yelled, “Father, I love you. I forgive you. Please do not do this thing. Please do not torment yourself in this way,” as he saw his body being carried to Rath Dinen, the houses of the dead of the Kings and Stewards, The Silent Street from which no one returns. He saw his heartbroken and despairing father, fight off all comers seeking to separate father from son. He felt rather than heard him shout “I must stay by my son. You will not take my son from me!” Faramir shouted, “I’m here, Father. I’m here. I won’t leave you.” Only to have the grey mist swallow up his words and echo them back in an slight mocking fashion. Tears fell unto Faramir’s heart, his very soul was being rent. Some evil was at work here, showing him his heart’s desire, to see his father’s love for him but to see that very love tearing his father apart.

The grey had turned to darkness, no longer a soft smothering grey but now a harsh jangling darkness. A darkness that would steal the soul. Faramir sunk into new depths of desolation. He would have fallen further but for a bright, white light filling his senses and he looked up and saw Mithrandir bathed in a circle of light as he raised Faramir up. Faramir saw that Mithrandir was carrying him away from his father. Panic and a fear more real than he had ever known lit his heart. He would not, he could not leave his father. Ripped from the bottom of his soul, he screamed “Father!!! Help me!” This time the dark mist receded ever so slightly and Faramir again felt his father’s words as he saw his face is collapse further in pain and regret, weeping as he exclaimed, “Do not take my son from me, He calls for me!” Faramir, rather than taking heart that his father finally heard him, could not bear to behold the torment etched deeper across his father’s face. Faramir shrank back from the unbridled agony that he was forced to bear witness to, but never to comfort. Faramir watched as his body was taken from the door out into the weak spring sunlight. His father trembling behind him, looking longingly upon Faramir’s face, he had become a pale shadow of the man he once was. But as Faramir turned away unable to see anymore words struck his heart and shattered what was left of his hope,“Didst thou think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind!” He looked up and saw that his father’s visage had changed from one of despair to one of arrogance, a face more like the Denethor he knew so well. Held within his father’s grasp was the Seeing Stone of Anor. "I have seen more than thou knowest, Grey Fool." At that all reason fled and Faramir was left with only emotion to contain his grief. His father had fallen victim to the subtlety of evil. Anger, fear, disappointment, sorrow raged through him as the grey mist closed in cutting off his air and blinding him to all that had surrounded him.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Disclaimer: There are various instances in which I quote from either the films or the books. I do not specifically note them as I have in the past as I felt it disrupted from the flow of the story. But there are various quotes and I wanted to acknowledge that.


	2. Hands of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn, as Healer entered Minas Tirith to heal Faramir.

Chapter 2 -- Hands of the King

At Gandalf’s bidding Aragorn had come into the city. Under the grey cloak of Lorien he slipped past what remained of the main gate, broken by Grond, hinges hanging. He must answer this call, this urgent need. Nothing else mattered at this moment. He entered the Houses of Healing full of purpose and was greeted by joy, “Strider!” exclaimed a small bundle of energy dressed in the Sable and Silver. Pippin. The joy he felt in seeing the youngest Hobbit spread through his body like a warm glow. He laughed and clasped Pippin’s hand, “So good it is to see you Master Pippin, Guard of the Citadel, I see. Lead on.”

Seeing the injured laid upon the beds was a sobering sight and Gandalf told him of the work of the watchers, watching and listening as the Black Shadow fell upon its victims. He had seen its work before, Frodo on Weathertop came to mind. It was a terrible affliction.

He went to Faramir's bedside; the young Steward was still as the grave, only a very slight breath indicated body and soul were still knit though the ends were fraying strand by strand. A light linen lay across his body, his face ashen and a sheen of fever evident. Aragorn knelt by his bed and grasped one of Faramir’s hands, it had a fell chill about it. He placed his other hand upon the young Steward’s brow and closed his eyes and saw only a grey mist within his mind’s eye. Opening his eyes and removing his hand, “He is almost spent. It is the Black Shadow that grips his heart.” He questioned the healers present, “Have you Athelas?” Seeing puzzlement, he inwardly sighed, “it is also known as Kingsfoil in the Common Tongue.” Light broke upon the nearest healer’s face, “Oh, but that is a weed!” Again Aragorn paused and prayed to the Valar for patience in this moment and slipped a look of entreaty to Gandalf who stood close by. Gandalf responded, “Well go and fetch what can be had in the City, be quick.” Aragorn looked his thanks at the wizard whom he had known since he was a very small child living in Imladris and turned back to Faramir to do what he could until the healing herb could be located.

He again placed his hand on Faramir’s brow and closed his eyes murmuring Sindarin words of healing. He entered the grey mist in search of the young man’s essence. He could feel it, but it was very weak. “Faramir!” he called through the mist searching for the young man. Ghostly voices called back to him in a mockery of his own voice. Everything had been leeched of colour, everything appearing dim, ephemeral, not real. They called him this way and that and had him tracing circles for seeming hours as time lost all meaning in this place of shadows, hours futilely spent as they whispered his own doubts back at him. He persevered, straining in his mind’s eye for any sign of the young Steward. At length he saw a figure huddled, knees drawn up, hands over his ears, rocking back and forth. As Aragorn approached he could heard a very soft but incessant whimper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so sorry.” Cruel laughter echoed all around them and as Aragorn approached he saw a shadow moving as if it were a living thing. A hand flicked to beat away the encroaching shadow, only to have another take up the foul business of torment. Aragorn drew closer trying to ignore his own demons that were whispering into his soul. When he was just a few feet away he thought he saw through the eerie half light of shadow Faramir’s dark blonde hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he heard the words intoned constantly. Aragorn knelt in front of the rocking form and placed one hand upon a forearm asking “Faramir?” gently. The head jerked up and Aragorn beheld unseeing eyes of such pain and torment. Aragorn sent a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the Valar. His eyes in this grey enshadowed place had not deceived him. It was indeed Faramir, who struggle to break free of the gentle hand. 

Aragorn grabbed both sides of Faramir’s head, shouting “Look at me! See me!! Faramir! I have come to take you home!” Then through fear and pain the wretched figure shouted, “I have no home, I destroyed the only home I had. There is nothing……” the voice trailed and the incessant “I’m sorry” began again. Aragorn again shouted, “Look at me, Listen to me!” he grabbed Faramir in a fierce hug, kissing the top of his forehead. “You are loved and needed. You must come back to me now.” At length the incessant litany of “sorry” slowed and Aragorn pulled back to place his hands once again on Faramir’s cheeks and kissed his forehead and saw life slowly returning to the light blue eyes. At that Aragorn felt a tug on his inner senses. “I will return. Trust in that. I will not forsake you!” Faramir nodded staring longingly into the grey eyes of a healer taking what solace he could. At that he withdrew, assuring Faramir all would be well and to be strong for just a while longer. 

Aragorn looked up and there was Bergil, Beregond’s son holding out six leaves. Thanking the Valar for the third time that hour, Aragorn took two of the leaves and rolled them in his hands crushing them. At once it seemed that the air was filled with fragrant essence, a joyous life-giving force, renewing and replenishing the spirits of all, reminding each of peaceful joyful times past. It was little known in these latter times the cleansing wholesomeness that existed within the leaf of Aethlas, but much had been lost in these times. Aragorn quickly placed the crushed leaves within a ceramic bowl of steaming water and placed it near Faramir’s tormented visage. 

Within the grey mist Faramir waited and as he watched, the mist began to dissipate and the sun started to shine upon a green meadow. In the near distance he saw the White Tower of Ecthelion shining as a beacon, undaunted, undeterred, undamaged. The White City beckoned to him. He could hear the clear ringing of the silver trumpets calling him home. He stood and ran, joyously free, home to his City. And there, as he had promised was Aragorn, arms outstretched, the ring of Barahir gently glowing, Faramir gratefully, joyously, ran into the arms of his King.

Faramir opened his eyes, free of the grey mist that had enshrouded him for so long, and looked into the smiling grey eyes of his King, “My Lord, you called me. I come. What does the King command?”*

Aragorn looked into the light blue eyes of this good man and said, “Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary. Rest awhile, take food and be ready when I return.”*

Faramir, with a new found joy filling his duty bound heart, avowed, “I will, Lord. For who would lie idle when the King has returned.”*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: * denotes quote from ROTK book.
> 
> ** denotes quote from ROTK film.


	3. Éowyn's Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Houses of Healing, both healing of mind and body, Faramir and Éowyn meet.

Chapter 3 – Éowyn’s Ask

In the Houses of Healing

Faramir sat in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, looking out towards the east, soaking up the morning sunlight. He was obeying the command of his King. He was resting, and eating and recovering his strength. Every second thought, though was with the host that had left for the Morgul Vale to challenge Sauron at the Black Gates themselves. A part of him yearned to be there with them, but for once it was not the need to prove himself worthy that drove him, or the need to make up for not being Boromir that caused him to risk his life to try and win the unattainable approval of his father. Faramir shut his eyes against the thought of his father. Much of what he endured as the Black Shadow tried to take hold remained in his memory. A parting gift as it were from the Witch King of Angmar, he thought bitterly. He knew his father was dead and he remembered with bitter clarity the moments that lead up to his death. He would have to make peace with these memories if he were to maintain the tenuous calm within that had been given to him by his King. Faramir thought of Aragorn, and a true sense of gratitude filled his heart. He would never be able to fully thank Aragorn for what he had been given, no less than a second chance at life itself. Quite literally, the King had come into the shadows and saved him, pulled him back from the torment of Shadow and doubt. No words or deeds would ever be enough, but he knew that he would spend his life gratefully in his service, to give back what he could. The burden of being his father's son had been lifted from his shoulders. So much had happened. He had lost so much in this war against Sauron. It would take much time to accept all that had befallen him, let alone understand it. The memory of his father and his beloved brother's passing evoked such different emotions within Faramir. Grief, sorrow, the relationships that would now never be, comingled with the emotions that he had a harder time accepting and acknowledging; those of relief, freedom, a lightening of burden. He balked at admitting to such emotions. What kind of son can be glad that his father has died? This question sat heavy on his heart.

No, he told himself, it was not the time for recriminations. It was a time for healing. It was a time for living because no one knew what the next day would bring. Despite the misgivings he had about his father's passing and the shifting fortunes of the war itself, he felt a shadow had indeed lifted from his heart and he could look forward in life, he paused and looked East again. How much life was left to any of them entirely depended on the army that gathered at the Black Gate and furthermore on two Hobbits winding their way though the Morgai within Mordor on a lonely quest that would end at Mount Doom. All depended on them. Faramir made petition within his heart, asking the Valar to make easy their path and to protect them however much they could be protected as they traveled literally through the land of Shadow. He shivered slightly in the weak morning light and decided that it was time for many such musings to end for this day.

As he stood to go inside the hall of the Houses of Healing he was stopped by his squire, "My Lord, the Warden of the House wishes an audience with you." Faramir sighed at his overly officious but very eager young servant. He had known the boy for years and he only fell back into stilted formality when he was feeling vulnerable and scared. He placed a gentle hand on his squire's shoulder "Eirik, please. This is not the Citadel. We do not need such formality here." He tried to look stern but ended with a smile for the earnest young man and relented, "Go and bring him forth." He returned to the balustrade overlooking the City and Beyond. He heard footsteps behind and he turned, "Now Warden, you must forg-" Faramir pause in mid-sentence for beyond the Warden was a beauty beyond all reckoning. All in white with fair skin and reddish blond hair. She was a vision indeed, but what struck him to the heart was the look in her eye. It was as if he was looking into his own soul. A restlessness and self-doubt laid upon a fierce desire to prove herself and yet was muted somehow. Discounted and put aside. Had he not felt as much; he lived a life for others yet always overlooked, always doubted by his father. Pity welled up within him for this strong yet fragile, beautiful white flower. "--Present the Lady Éowyn of Rohan." Faramir started and was belated aware that the Warden had been speaking. Coloring slightly, Faramir realised he had also been staring. He inclined a slight bow and held hand on heart, "My lady, What is it you wish of me?"

Éowyn looked on the Lord Steward ready to make her fervent petition but paused, she was caught by the gentle look in his light blue eyes, he seemed to see straight into her heart, past her defenses. There was no pretense or pretension, only an unnerving communion of sorts. Normally this would have angered her, such an intrusion into her private self. But not so this time, in this moment she saw no mockery, no questioning, only compassion and understanding. It quite took her breath away, she shook away such thoughts, she had always scorned the women of the court for sighing over such ideas, such tropes in their silly romantic stories. She has derided such emotions. They were only to be found in the most banal of love poems. Now to her affronted consternation the truth of the emotion was laid before her. This gentle man, for she felt within her heart this to be true, stood before her, taking her breath way. Galled by her own reaction, she rallied and came at him in a strong purposeful voice, "It is not that I have complaint about my treatment here. I have not. But I am well and I must have employment, I must be useful. And the Good Warden here will not hear told of this! I beg to be useful." 

Her voice, her words. Well he could understand their meaning, the full import of what they said and what they did not say. She needed to be useful, her soul cried out for duty, lest it should wither and die. Faramir understood that desperate need, that striving for something beyond herself, something to give her life meaning. He had spent his whole life in this search. He had only now begun to accept that about himself, he was only now beginning to see to the wounds of his own soul and to heal them, the King's hand had begun the process. Where it would take him he was unsure but he now had the courage and strength to try. The beauty before him now was in pain, not physical those were healing, but her soul was wounded. That much was clear.

"My Lord, What say you to my entreaty? Will you say nothing?" Éowyn stood, uncertain. She turned to go.

"My Lady! Stay." Faramir entreated "Forgive me my manners." He turned to the Warden, "if you would give us leave, Master Warden. I will tend to this." The Warden bowed, gave his farewell to Éowyn and departed. He turned back to Éowyn, to the desperate pain and longing in her pale blue eyes. He wanted more than anything to assuage that pain but was unsure as how this could be done; how he of all people could do this thing. "Now My lady, what is it that you ask of me?"

"That you release me from this house so that I might seek a way to pay my debt of honour. My brother goes forth to the Morgul Vale and yet I must sit and bide my time. I looked for death in battle if only to give my life some meaning. Now I am denied even that." she ended fervently.

Faramir looked at the indomitable spirit of this lady and the depths of her grief, in awe and in sorrow, knowing the pain that lived in her heart and he felt her spirit give direction to his heart. He knew of her pain, her sadness, her need for duty, for occupation. It mirrored what had been in his own wounded soul, until the King's hand. "My lady, I cannot countermand what the Healing Warden has deemed necessary. For even I am held here in wise safety as my mind and body heal. Can you not do the same?"

Looking into Faramir's kind blue depths Éowyn wanted to be able to say yes. She saw his gentleness, his understanding, could even bask in it, but her mind rebelled, "But I do not desire healing! I must be given employment of some kind, if not battle!"

Faramir said gravely, "The battle may be brought to us at the last, whether we will it or no."

Éowyn closed her eyes in frustration, "I would have you know that I am not afraid. I fear neither death nor pain."**

Faramir's heart was pieced in both admiration and grief, "What do you fear, m'lady?"**

"A cage."** Éowyn stopped. The word was more than she had meant to say, far more than she had meant to reveal. She looked at Faramir, not knowing what she expected to see, but a small almost admiring smile was on his face and the quiet compassion and understanding had not left his eyes, it took her aback just slightly. She continued with a lighter tenor in her voice hoping to deflect him from her previous words, "The nurses would have me in bed seven days. I cannot. And my window does not face Eastward." this last was said with almost a small girl's plaintiveness 

Faramir smiled a little more and took her hands in his. "Your window does not look East? Well, in that, at least I can help. The rest we will have sit and wait and watch. And if you would consent," Faramir continued tentatively, hopefully, "to keep company with me and we can watch and wait together. I should very much like that."

Éowyn looked into his eyes and felt an ever so soft fluttering in her breast, like a bird trying to settle its wings on a patch of cool green grass, to take comfort and ease if only for a moment or two. "Yes."


	4. A Heart in Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir seeks to understand the shadow upon Éowyn's heart. In doing so he makes the acquaintance of Merry and they have their first smoke together.

Ch. 4 – A Heart in Shadow

Faramir watched as the White Lady of Rohan took her leave. He stood at the balustrade for some time looking without really seeing, his mind straying to pale blue eyes. As he looked again to the East, his mind did not travel the distance the Morgul Vale but rather stayed here in the hall pondering the troubled heart of Éowyn. He looked to the doorway and noticed that Eirik still sat attendant upon his lord. He smiled and motioned his squire to come forward, “Eirik, have you sat there all this while?”

“Yes, My lord. It is my duty.” Faramir looked upon the earnest young squire, who had seen so much in these last few weeks, so much fear and blood; death and near destruction of his home city, so much for one so young and yet he had never wavered in his duty, “Thank you, thank you for your care and attendance upon me.” He placed a hand upon the boy’s shoulder and placed a kiss on the top of his head. “Can you do me one more service for this moment?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Eirik’s eyes fair shone under the praise of his lord, “what is your will?”

“Can you bring the Warden of the House to me? I wish to speak with him.”

“Yes, My Lord. At once, My Lord!” Eirik made to depart. Only to be stopped by his lord’s voice.

“And Eirik,”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“After you have done me this service, please go to the refectory and get yourself some breakfast, you must be very hungry!”

“Oh yes, My lord. I am at that! At once, My Lord!” Eirik bounded off to perform his office.

Faramir chuckled quietly, but only after Eirik was out of earshot for he minded to spare the young boy’s dignity. He sobered, thinking that if the Armies of the West did not succeed such gentle service as Eirik gave to him would cease to exist. All would fall before evil. But he rallied with thought, all was not lost yet. There was still hope. 

After several moments the Warden appeared in the garden, “My Lord, you wished to speak to me?”

“Yes, Master Warden,” Faramir confirmed, “please, let us sit” he motioned to a stone bench in the corner of the garden.

After sitting Faramir began, “Tell me all you know of the White Lady of Rohan.” He paused looking at his old friend, at something of a loss, “I-I wish to help her….a-and I need to know all I can in order to do so.”

The Warden looked at his Steward curious at the stumbling of his words. He had known Faramir for most of the younger man’s life. Faramir frequented the Houses of Healing as a young boy and later as a young man seeking refuge from his father’s sharp tongue when his older brother was away. He had a thirst for knowledge and an intuitive heart. He was drawn to the healing arts. He was an intelligent and kind-hearted man and would have made a good healer had he been born to another man and not the Ruling Steward. He had often mused that Faramir was indeed drawn to the healing arts to bring healing to others because he could not heal or salve his own father’s hidden pain. An intuitive child wishing to help in any way he could. The Warden sighed, Denethor never understood his second son, always doubted his motives; always questioned his actions. He never understood that Faramir, in his heart, only wanted to heal and protect. He could not protect his father from himself so he would try to protect all of Gondor in his stead. 

It came as no surprise to him that Faramir should want to help the Lady of Rohan, but what surprised him was the sudden tentativeness he heard, the almost apologetic way he asked. The Warden stated, “She had taken a grievous injury to the arm in battle,” He added she had fought valorously, defending Theoden King when he had been unhorsed as the Witch King had approached, “It is said,” The Warden leaned forward, “That she faced down the Witch King and dealt him the deadly blow… And it is why she sickened beyond what her injuries were.” The Black Shadow had been upon her and only the King had been able to bring her back.

Faramir stared at him upon this revelation. His heart was pierced with love and admiration for so valiant a lady. Touched by the Black Shadow. He shuddered with the thought of such beauty and valor to be brought so low. He thought of his own harrowing brush with the Shadow. To think of hers. His heart burst at the torment she must have endured. 

“That is all I know of her, My Lord,” the Warden said breaking into Faramir’s thoughts, “But if you would know more, speak with the Periannath, Meriadoc. He came in with her and has seemingly known her long.”

“Periannath you say, a Hobbit?” Faramir asked,

“Yes, My Lord. Shall I send for him?”

“Yes, Please. My Good Master Warden,” Faramir affirmed, “If you would be so kind.”

They stood and the Warden bowed and took his leave to summon good Master Meriadoc.

Faramir return to the stone bench musing upon the qualities of Hobbits. The ones he had met along this journey to war were an amazing, brave, fearless lot. 

The Warden within a few minutes returned with said Hobbit, “My Lord,” he announced, “Master Meriadoc Brandybuck.”

“Just Merry if you please.” Faramir heard a bright, cheerful voice chime in. He looked up and saw walking across the garden, a Hobbit, seemingly just a little taller than Pippin, who was now, he remembered, traveling to the Black Gate.

“Merry? Pippin’s friend?” Faramir asked.

“His Cousin, more like.” Merry related, smiling. “The Warden said you wished to see me?”

“Yes, Yes I did.” Faramir looked to the older man, “Thank you, Master Warden. Would you wish to stay and join us?”

The Warden declined,“Thank you, but No. There are matters that need my attention,” he bowed and then took his leave.

Faramir looked back at Merry, “Please, come and sit.” He motioned to the space next to him on the stone bench.

Merry hopped onto the bench, his slipper clad feet not reaching the ground. “Do you mind?” he asked looking at Faramir while he pulled a pipe out of his pocket.

Faramir looked on in quiet amazement, and murmured, “No, No quite all right.” while hiding a grin at the funny, unabashed ways of Hobbits. He looked on with fascination as Merry quickly lit his pipe and puffed a few puffs. He gamely tried to begin, opening and shutting his mouth as sweet smelling pipe smoke began filling the air. Merry looked at him quizzically for a few moments and then offered up a second pipe to him. Faramir, who after slightly arching an eyebrow, accepted and Merry said, “Good Man! Pippin said you were a good man. And if he says so it must be true. I can see that myself. Always trust a man who is willing to sit and smoke with you!” Merry said as he lit Faramir’s pipe.

“Pippin said that?” Faramir asked, after puffing a few brief, beginning puffs, coughing a bit as this was a new experience for him. He unexpectantly felt a rush of good feeling that Pippin, who had found a soft spot in Faramir’s heart with his stout ways, had spoken so.

“Yes, he did.”

Faramir had been told of what Pippin had done to save him. He would never be able to repay the debt of honour to the hobbit. That Pippin had spoken so well of Faramir made him very glad indeed.

“He is a good man himself,” Faramir avowed and as they both looked east, each offering an unspoken but no less heartfelt prayer to keep one Peregrin Took safe and out of harm’s way. They sat puffing a few puffs, “The Warden says that you among us here know Éowyn, the White Lady best.”

“That is true.” A smoke ring floated gently away.

“And that it was she that dealt the Killing stroke to the Witch King of Angmar.”

At this Merry grew quiet and still, pipe momentarily dropped to his side, “She and I killed the Witch King.” He intoned in a voice full of remembrance, so different from the bright and cheerful one he had had just moments before.

Faramir looked at Merry and the truth of his statement was written on the hobbit’s suddenly ashen face. Unspoken horror ran fleetingly across Merry’s pleasant features and then it was gone. “It isn’t really something I can talk about at the present.” 

“I understand, more than I care to, but I do understand.” They looked at each other as only battle-worn veterans can and a bond was shared.

They sat peaceably smoking pipes for several more minutes letting the present comforting aroma calm past horrors and hurts in as much as anything could. “Tell me about the White Lady, a-about Éowyn.” Faramir ventured the use of her given name and looked sidelong at Merry seeking permission to use her first name. Merry looking unperturbed at this, Faramir looked upon this as tacit blessing. “Why did she ride to battle? Why did she look for death?” Why is there such hurt in her eyes, he thought but did not say.

Merry sighed, “I don’t know if I can rightly speak to all. I don’t know if I know all. But I do know that she loved Theoden as her father, though he is only her uncle—was only her uncle.” Merry thought of Theoden and how they would never have that discussion of herb-lore and he felt sad and almost put his pipe away until Aragorn’s words came to mind, “Smoke then and think of him! For he was a gentle heart and a Great King. It should be a memory glad and honorable to the end of your days.” In honor of Theoden King, Merry took a full breath of smoke into his mouth and let it commingle with memory then drift away; the memory staying firmly in his heart. He looked at Faramir. “There had much unhappiness in Edoras, I understand. Much poisoning of Theoden by one he trusted. Eowyn saw it all and could only stand and watch her uncle sink into doubt then decrepitude. She could do nothing. When the king’s mind was rescued and retreat to Helm’s Deep came, again she was not allowed to fight, only to wait. She felt doubted and stunted.”

“Put in a cage, so to speak.” Faramir suggested thinking of the word that had slipped from Éowyn’s lips earlier.

Merry paused, “I suppose that is one way of putting it, Yes.” He continued, “During the muster we became each other’s champion and confidant, you see neither of us were supposed to be here. When Aragorn left the muster for the Path of the Dead, it really seemed to upset her. They had grown close and I guess she felt let down in some way. She had come to depend on him. She didn’t say much about it. She just became grimmer and more determined than ever to join the host riding to Gondor’s aid.”

Faramir puffed on his pipe and pondered what Merry had said. She was so different from any woman he knew. Her valor, her sadness, they spoke to him. He had known pain, grief, misunderstanding, doubt within his own life. He could well see it hers.

“I will say one thing more,” Merry said looking straight at Faramir, “She is kindness itself. She took me under her wing, protected and encouraged me when nobody else believed I could help this cause in my own way. She didn’t have to do that; but she did. I would not see her hurt anymore. If you can help her, I will be forever in your debt.”

Faramir held the hobbit’s earnest eyes for moments longer, “She is in my heart, Master Hobbit, I can only hope she will let me into hers. I wish to ease her pain; if only she will allow me.”

Merry saw the truth of his words in his eyes. He smiled then and sat back and drew a big puff on his pipe and coaxed a series of little smoke rings to gently float through the air. And together they stayed puffing, sitting on the stone bench. At evening Faramir had taken to the garden once again knowing from the Warden this was her habit after evening meal but Eowyn did not appear. Given Merry’s words earlier, he knew perseverance was needed. Hope was everything in these times; hope had been rekindled within him. And now he could only try to give it new life within Eowyn. He would be her lifeline, if only she would allow it.

The next morning, Faramir was again the garden at the balustrade and again looking East. Something in his heart whispered to look behind instead. Listening to his heart he looked up onto the balcony above and saw a vision in white, reddish blond hair gleaming. She looked down and saw Faramir's mesmerized gaze, she paused as if unsure and then gently smiled down upon him. Faramir felt a gentle warmth envelope him and he called out, “My Lady, Please come down and join me this morning.” Éowyn hesitated and then disappeared from the balcony. Faramir knew a moment of despair, then she came. He smiled, extended his hand to Éowyn, “Come my lady, let us walk and keep each other company this bright morning!” Éowyn smiled, and lit Faramir’s heart. And they walked and waited, together, as he promised they would.


	5. Symbol of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas' great blue mantle. Faramir reflects on his memories of it before he gives it to Éowyn. Éowyn believes that she cannot give what Faramir so gently asks for.

Chapter 5 – Symbol of Love

Eirik ran to the Citadel eager to do his lord’s bidding. It was a special errand he was on and his lord had entrusted it to him. He approached the entrance and was greeted by Harthedir, one of the Citadel Guard, “Ho there Eirik! Slow down. Why do you run so quickly!” 

Eirik slowed to speak to Harthedir, one of his favourites of the Guard, “I’m on a special charge from my lord.”

Harthedir’s face grew concerned, for in these troubled times it was bad tidings that often necessitated urgency, “Is the Lord Faramir not well? We know he was taken to the Houses of Healing after the tragic passing of the Lord Steward, but we have heard little else. Rumours, nothing more.”

Eirik said, “Be Peaceful, My lord is fine, he grows stronger and stronger. The King saw to that.” He stated excitedly, warming to his tale. “He healed him, you see. I was there by his side. Bergil brought Kingsfoil, I always thought it was a weed, and handed it to the King. He took it in his hands and crushed it.” His eyes filled with wonder at the memory, “I tell you, Harthedir, the air, it was as if I returned to the meadow outside the gates where my father and I use to fish…”

Harthedir looked at him, “The King you say? Then the rumours are true.” He looked at the White Tree, still guarded by four Guardsmen, and felt a nascent hope. Long had it been since he had any hope and the recent days had been like something created out of nightmares. So many of his brothers-in-arms had lost their lives. Now all sat in abeyance, the White City was quiet, pensive, waiting for news. Good or ill, nobody knew. One thing was for certain, though, he was heartily glad to hear the good tidings of the Lord Faramir. A good man and leader if ever there was one. The Guard to a man held him in the highest esteem and unfortunate strange tidings had surrounded him of late. “Well, let me not keep you from your important errand! Be off with you!”

Hand on heart in parting, Eirik ran towards Faramir’s apartments. He looked quickly around his lord’s bedchamber, tidy through lack of use, and located the wardrobe. He was to look for a large black velvet bag. Spying it in a corner Eirik grabbed it and yanked, causing an old pair of boots to go flying and a few belts to swing perilously on their pegs. Eirik stilled the belts and replaced the boots carefully and tried to make it look like nothing else had been disturbed. He picked up the velvet bag. It was heavy and through a hole in the top flap he could see deep blue velvet and a hint of stars. He felt the exposed patch and it felt very soft and Eirik wondered what it was that his lord asked him to retrieve. But that was not his duty; his duty was to get this soft but heavy thing back to his lord.

Faramir sat in his room reading a treatise on healing that the Warden had given him to pass the time. He had kept company with Eowyn as often as she would allow. Sometimes they would talk and sometimes not. Merry did join them once or twice for he did seem to gladden Eowyn’s heart and made her laugh, but for much of the last five days it was just the two walking and waiting. It had been companionable and Faramir flattered himself to say Eowyn did look happier and that shadowed look was not ever present in her eyes. He heard rapping on the door. “Come!” he called.

In walked Eirik carrying an overly large satchel with both hands. He placed it on an obliging chair and looked at his Lord breathing heavily having run most of the way. Faramir hid a smile, “Bit heavy was it?” 

Eirik nodded, “Just a little!” he said trying to catch his breath, “What is it? I touched a small portion of it. It was very soft. But I didn’t take it out of the satchel!” he hastened to add.

Faramir looked at the lad, waved his hand saying, “It is all right, Eirik. Thank you for bringing it for me. Would you like to see what it is?”

Eirik nodded quickly, his brown yet to be shorn curls bobbing up and down.

Faramir got up from the window seat and crossed the room. He unbuckled the satchel and ran his hand across the deep blue velvet as a memory appeared in his mind’s eye.

~*~*~*~*~

Spring 2988 Minas Tirith

Finduilas looked out over the City from the Citadel. She could not help but cast her eye towards far away Dol Amroth. She missed the sea breezes. They never failed to make her feel alive. Here in Minas Tirith the wind blew but it was not a healing wind; more like a sharp, biting wind more often than not coming off the plains from the North. She could never speak of the difference to her husband, the time she did mention it once the look of hurt in his eyes was more than she could bear. She wrapped the blue mantle that he had made specially for her around her more tightly. She loved Denethor, it was why she left her seaside home, for love of the tall, proud man she had fallen in love with. Others thought him arrogant, but she saw another side to him. Gentle and kind and willing to bade that the winds should not blow so hard that they should trouble his fey and lovely wife. He would laugh with her and he would listen endlessly to the stories she would tell him. In their private apartments he was thoughtful and kind. If he seemed arrogant and strong-willed to the outside world, well that was necessary. He was the Ruling Steward, people expected much from him. It was a burden, but he bore it so well. She admired the way he carried the responsibility for his people. When Boromir was born, he was so proud of his robust little son. He would carry him in the ruling chamber where he held audiences and sit him at his feet for all to see. Boromir was to rule as his father had done and he could start to early, Denethor would tell her, but she could see through that excuse. He was simply such a proud father he could not to be apart from his boy.

A sadness crossed her face, the same could not be said for his second son. When Faramir was born it had been a difficult birthing and an early one. Finduilas had spent weeks in the Houses of the Healing and everyone was unsure if the child would survive. Those born too early very often did not. She came through but the doubt and fear that Denethor had endured left a mark on him that he was never quite able dispel entirely. Whenever she came down with even a sniffle, he would fly off to the healers to discuss with them, coming back with various cures and potions for her. It was an expression of his love and worry, she accepted that, and she loved him all the more. With Faramir however it was quite different. It had been weeks before the healers were confident that the little boy would survive. Denethor was frightened to even hold the child for fear that he should damage him in anyway. Finduilas knew his heart and knew it was fear that kept father from son. As the child grew there was a distance had proven hard to bridge. It broken her heart to see it, but she was not sure what could be done. She could hope only that when Faramir was older father and son might get to know each other. She would make all efforts for this to take place. But for now, she would be both mother and father to the dear sweet child that Faramir was becoming. 

“My Lady!” the voice of Faramir’s nurse interrupted her.

“Mariel, yes. What is it?” she called although she already knew. 

“Mama!” Faramir ran across the balcony and into his mother’s arms.

Finduilas gathered up the slight five-year-old and held him tightly in her arms turning back and forth gently. She looked into the big blue eyes and saw traces of tears. “Oh, my sweet little one. Why are you so sad, Hmmm!” She looked at Mariel, and mouthed , “What happened this time?” The nurse sighed and gave her the look that they both understood. His father, again.

“Thank you, Mariel. I will bring him down before the noon meal.” The nurse bowed slightly and took her leave casting a tender look at her charge who was a dear little thing. Why his father could not see that was beyond her. She left pondering the strange ways of her betters, shaking her head.

Finduilas closed her eyes and prayed to the Valar for strength and understanding. Denethor was a good man and she knew this and she could only ask the Valar to give him understanding when dealing with their second son. She opened her eyes and found her youngest gazing at her with those big blues, “Mama sad again? I’m sorry I’ll try to be better…” She walked over and sat down on the rocking chair that she had brought up here and hugged her little boy. “Faramir. You have done nothing wrong.” She opened the blue mantle and wrapped both of them inside, protected against the wind. She rocked them both, “You are my son and I could not love you anymore than I do right now. You will grow to be a strong and kind man, I know this in my heart and I can feel it in yours. Your father loves you and you must always remember that. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Mama.” The big blue eyes looked at her and the little boy nodded.

“That’s my good boy! You are so very special to me, Faramir.” She smoothed the curls on his forehead and kissed them. They sat and rocked there for quite some time.

~*~*~*~*~

“My Lord?”

Faramir blinked and then looked at his Squire, “Eirik, I am sorry.” He pulled the large blue mantle out of the satchel and held it for the boy to see before draping it over his arm to stroke it gently, “This mantle belonged to my mother, she died when I was five. It always brings back many memories.”

Eirik looked at the cloak and judging from the look on his lord’s face, his mother must have been a lovely mum. It curiously made him miss his own mother, who was blissful still alive even after the horrors of the past weeks and living on the third tier.

“Thank you for bringing this to me, Eirik.”

“I am at your service, My lord.”

“If you could leave me now. I wish to be alone.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Eirik bowed and placed his hand on heart and a concerned look on his face.

Faramir looked at him, “I’m all right, Eirik. But I thank you for your concern.”

Eirik bowed again and left.

Faramir looked at the blue mantle. It was his prize possession. It has been given to him when he was eight by his father, a rare moment of compassion and understanding. It had not lasted but he had the mantle of a reminder of that moment as well.

He had sent Eirik after it because he wanted to give it to Eowyn. He wanted to see her wear it. It was a reminder of his first happiness and his first grief. Her sadness spoke to him and he wanted to see her wearing this symbol of love.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That day after the midday meal, Faramir went to the garden and waited. Éowyn soon came. 

Faramir smiled and then ventured, “You were cold last night, so I brought you this.” He picked up the mantle from the bench and held it in both hands.

Éowyn gazed upon the mantle. It was a beautiful piece of work. Deep blue velvet with silver stars embroidered on the collar, armholes and hem. She touched it, and her fingers reveled in the softness they found. “It’s beautiful.” She looked at Faramir, who held such a look of love, that it gave her pause, “I can’t take this. It is too beautiful.”

Faramir’s face fell just a little, “Oh please. It was my mother’s. I want you to have it. And besides you’re cold. You need something.”

Éowyn looked at him, this sweet, gentle man, she had nothing to give him. Not even herself. She was ungentle; doubted; she felt undeserving. But she allowed him to place it on her shoulders because she saw in his face to deny it would be to hurt him greatly and that was something she could not do. Not after all the kindness he had shown her.

Faramir looked at Éowyn in the blue mantel and she looked more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. But she was shivering even as she was wrapped in his mother’s cloak.

Faramir followed her gaze, “Where do you look, Éowyn?” Though he need not have asked. The whole city waited for the answer she sought. 

“Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?” she said, voice choked with emotion, “And he does not come? It is seven days since he rode away.”

Something struck Faramir as she spoke, she had said “he” not the army but “he”. Something Merry had said when first they spoke. He spoke of the closeness of Éowyn and Aragorn. He realised a portion of her hurt. The King who had saved Faramir and given him hope again. It was he that she mourned.

Thunderbolt though it was he put it aside for he could not think upon it at that moment. He turned to her, stroked her cheek and spoke to make what avowal he could, not knowing how it would be received, “Seven days, yes. Please do not think ill of me, but these seven days, filled with uncertainty and foreboding and grief, I have found joy, a joy I never thought to find. But it is combined with pain, because we know not what will come from the East. It pains me to think that I might lose that joy that I found. Selfishly I would not have this world ending, losing what I have just found.” Faramir looked into Éowyn’s eyes searching for anything that might give him hope.

Éowyn’s eyes were grave but kind, knowing that she could not give what she did not have. “Lose what you have found? I do not know what you could have found. Come my friend, Let us not speak of such things. Let us not speak at all. I fear an abyss is before me and know not if there light in back of me. I await some stroke of doom.”

Faramir looked into her eyes. His heart bereft, “Yes, we all await the stroke of Doom.” And said no more because in that moment all seemed to be held in total stillness not just for them but throughout the City. Even the rustling of the leaves and wind through the trees, time seemingly stood still. Unknowingly their hands had sought each other and they waited. For what they did not know.

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The reference to when Faramir's father gave him his mother’s mantel is not canon; it is in reference to another story I wrote called “A Bond Remembered.”


	6. Bound by Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring War is over, and happiness prevades in Minas Tirith. One heart still stands troubled. Faramir with gentleness and patience shows Éowyn a way through her regret and doubt to a new life.

Chapter 6 – Bound by Joy

All was in stillness. And then it was not. The Earth shook. The very foundations of the White City rumbled and then life in the City began again. “Numenor,” Faramir whispered.

“What do you mean?” Éowyn said, still clasping his hands.

“It was a dream I had, have had many times. The world covered by darkness, a darkness unescapable,”

Éowyn fearing those words and what they meant, drew closer to Faramir, seeking his comfort.

Faramir, warmed by her touch, her nearness, raised her chin with his hand and looked into those troubled depths. And for the first time he knew the vision that he had lived with, the vision that had sent Boromir on the quest that saw him join the Nine Walkers, would not come to pass. A cloud left his vision and he spoke words of comfort to the woman was becoming his heart, “No, it was only a dream.” He looked to the East, “Cold reason might say it is the end of days, but in my heart I do not believe it. I feel joy in my bones,” He looked down at Éowyn, worry and light combined in her pale blue depths, “I do not believe the darkness.” and he kissed her forehead, hugging her. “I do not believe this darkness will last.”

Éowyn looked up into Faramir’s gentle blue eyes and she truly saw no darkness, only light and hope and love. She wanted to believe in his vision, in his love but she remained in shadow; her life still remained in shadow. But just for this while she would stand in his light, basking in the reflected glow; telling herself that his light was enough for now. They remained in the garden looking toward the East and then at each other as a healing wind blew in from the North. The Anduin ran silver and joy rose in song from the streets of the City.

Eirik ran in from the Hall to seek his Lord and pointed to the sky, shouting, “The Eagles, my Lord!”

They looked to the East and there was a great Eagle, singing the confirmation of what Faramir’s heart already knew. It was done. Sauron was defeated and the Armies of the West were victorious. Faramir in a rush of emotion, fervently hugged Éowyn and kissed her forehead again.

He then swooped Eirik up and swung him around in joy, “Oh my lad, it is finished!”

Eirik, after his feet gained ground again, had an ear-splitting grin, “If Mum could only be seeing this!”

Faramir declared, “Go to your mother, my boy. Go to her!”

“Oh my lord, Do you mean it, my lord?”

“Yes, most definitely, a boy should be with his mum at this joyous time!”

Eirik, overcome with happiness, kissed his lord’s hand and was off running like the wind along the winding ways down the tiers to his mother.

Éowyn, eyes full of laughter, immediate joy having chased sadness briefly to the shadows, “That was very kind of you.”

Faramir coloured slightly, “A boy needs his mother at times of great joy.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Joy abounded in the City. The absence of hope that had pervaded the City, insidiously infecting all aspects of life was marked in the heart by its return. Hopelessness had seeped into the very stones of the City, unnoticed and unmarked until the mountain collapsed and hope and joy once again filled into the void it had left. 

Laughter, easy and abundant, was heard in every corner. Faramir, restored in spirit and body, removed to the Citadel from the Houses of Healing to take up his father’s Stewardship if only until such time as the King should come to the White City. He found much that needed restoring. Eirik, returned running from yet another errand his Lord had sent him upon, saw Harthedir once again standing guard at the gates of the Citadel.

“Running again, Eirik? whither from?” Harthedir asked, a smile spread across his face.

“Yes.” Eirik returned the smile, stopped to catch his breath and share a few words with one of his favourite Guardsman, “I had a missive for those leaving for the Field of Cormallen that my lord would have delivered.” He look up and stood after the stitch in his side abated and looked at the White Tree, protected as ever by four Guardsmen. He looked back at Harthedir, “I told you everything would be good, my lord said as much!”

Harthedir looked at Eirik and remembered what it was like to be that young, to have such hope and faith. In truth, Eirik had been right. He gazed on the White Tree and felt hope welling again within him. Joy had flown in with the Eagles and he would remember that moment of bliss to the ending of his days. Days that would no longer foreshadow doom but hope and a promise of peace. He smiled at Eirik, “You were right and I was wrong to doubt.” He ruffled the tousled brown curls, “Now be off with you, or the Lord Faramir will wonder what has happened to his squire!” Eirik bid him farewell, hand on heart and scampered off to his Lord.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir had been working these last weeks of Spring making the City ready for the coming of the King. He had never really been privy to the inner workings of the City as he had never been in his father’s consul. He had never been trusted enough for the responsibility. Boromir had been the son who was to succeed. He paused for a moment as an unbidden wave of sadness fell over him. It was a pain that he knew that he had learn to live with and to learn from. His father and his brother. Both so very important in his life for very different reasons and yet in their own ways shaped who Faramir was. Mithrandir was right. His father did love him and he did remember in the end. The end, he still shuddered at what that end was. He had seen it all through the skewed prism of the Black Shadow, a vision only given to torment him rather than give him any comfort. Granted, to have lived through it was horrifying, but also a small portion of his soul was salved in a way. He saw his father’s love for him, in the end. However he was granted that knowledge, it was part of him now and might eventually help him to come to understand his father, may be just a little. His mother knew and she had him promise to remember; a child’s promise that had held a man’s heart. He sighed, sat back in his chair of rosewood and black velvet, at its head the embroidered tree and seven stars, and rubbed his face with both hands; resting his chin on his fingertips. 

A piercing pain lanced the heart as he thought of his beloved brother, the torment of his last days; the valor with which he met his end, desperately defending both Merry and Pippin. Pippin told him of their last moments with him. Both Hobbits were near and dear to his heart; without Boromir he would never have known them. A brother’s last gift, perhaps. Boromir died defending those he held dear. That is how Faramir would choose to remember his beloved brother. He could not think of the other story that Sam had related; that hurt too much. He was not strong enough to face that just yet, but one day perhaps he would.

Faramir threw his pen down. He was going to get no more work done today; his feelings were in such a jumble. He reached for his goblet of Dorwinian vintage and savoured the sweet, yet lightly tart liquid as it gently coursed down his throat. He looked around the room with somber eyes. The Steward's study. Many a time had he been called here to account for some perceived wrong or fault as a young child, even as a young man. At the spot in front of the desk where he now sat he had stood trying to stammer out an explanation for his latest grievous fault. His memories of this room were not happy ones but this was the office of the Steward, time out of mind, so here he must sit and deal with the memories of the past and the challenges of the present in equal measure. He took another sip of the wine to ease his jangled nerves, when came a knock at the door to the study. The slight noise went straight though him as his exposed feelings had yet to calm themselves and he spilled just a little wine on a parchment as he called out, “Come!” As he was dabbing up the excess wine, Eirik announced, “The Master Warden of the Houses of Healing.”

Faramir stood up quickly and his hand knocking over the last dregs that were in the cup. “Damn it!" "Master Warden—" His first thoughts flew to Eowyn. then, "Eirik, would you be so kind as to clean this mess I seem to have made.”

“At once, My Lord.” Eirik sprang into action, shooing his lord from behind the desk.

The Warden was amused to view Faramir’s clumsiness, it was unusual in him. After the normal spate of clumsiness that seems to inhabit all young boys growing into men, he was really quite graceful except when he was emotional, troubled or flustered, then….The Warden raised an eyebrow.

“What can I do for you?” He paused, a worry brow furrowed across his forehead, “Is it Éowyn?” he asked with unease. The Warden eyes belied his concern and the truth of Faramir’s guess. “What is it, Master Warden? For you worry me with your pausing.”

The Warden’s eyes turned kindly, worrying Faramir even more, “She is uneasy, My lord. Saddened again. She seemed to grow happy just we learned of the victory at Mt. Doom but now that Merry has gone to the Field of Cormallen to be with his kin she grows sad.” He paused, seemingly uncertain how to proceed, “I, perchance saw a missive,” he continued, “written by, as I saw, by her brother, Éomer King, asking again that she come to the Field of Cormallen to be with him. I did not pry, My Lord. I brought her the missive and at first she was quite gladdened. But upon reading it her mood changed swiftly and she ran quite away from the garden and let the letter fall. Concerned, I picked it up and found the contents as I related. Do you know what might have upset her so, My lord?” The warden looked up and saw the most indescribable look on Faramir’s face. Troubled, resigned longing, hurt and utmost concern were all written on his face.

“I must see her, I have left her alone far too long.” He made for the door eyes ablaze with intense longing. He left without giving thought to anything else, leaving the Warden and Eirik looking at each other in tenuous amazement. The Warden nodded to Eirik and retraced his own path back to the Houses of Healing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir nearly ran the up the path to the Houses of Healing, ignoring all else in his wake. His heart was beating in his throat. Pale blue eyes sat before his eyes and a pair of hands, the hands of the King. Who had brought life. But it seems that he was robbing it of Eowyn, or at least she felt he was. Faramir closed his eyes as he arrived at the door to the Houses. He drew a steadying breath and opened the door. He knew where she was; where she always was. In the garden looking East. He approached quietly, as one might approach a skittish little bird who might take flight at the slightest movement. He caught her in profile and was struck once again by her beauty, but also again by her sadness.

He drew near, “My Lady,” he gently spoke, “Why yet are you sad again? The world rejoices and yet you are sad.”

Éowyn looked upon the kind, gentle face of a friend, and turned away.

Faramir, undeterred began again, “Why have you not gone when bidden to the Field of Cormallen?” he gently inquired. Close enough to smell her fragrance of flowers and spring but yet he did not touch her.

“Do not you know?” came the reply full of portent and sadness.

“I know of one reason and I hope for another.”

“Speak more plainly, I have no use for riddles!”

“Then I will speak plain. You don’t go because it is only your brother who calls and not the Lord Aragorn. You saw in him all that you could wish in a man. Strong, valiant, a leader and so he is. The one who heals and gives life. He is all those things. I should know. He gave me life as well. But while you looked with the eyes of love; he only looked with the eyes of pity. Or you stay because I do not go,” he ventured, putting his heart out on display, to be taken up or smashed into pieces, “because you still wish to be near me.”

While Faramir had been speaking, Éowyn had been looking into the distance. Her back was ramrod straight and she held herself as if she were ready to do battle. At Faramir’s last words, she turned to look daggers at him for his presumption to speak such things, but when she met his gentle, blue eyes again her breath was taken away by such a look of love and longing. She stilled, looking into his eyes. In a voice full of emotion Faramir whispered, “Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart. At first my heart was moved to pity by your sadness. I sought to heal a hurt I recognized as deep as my own.” Faramir reached a hand to gently stroke her fair, lightly freckled cheek, “But it became more than that. Your bravery, your spirit. If you had no sadness and were the Queen of all, I would love you. I do love you! Can you not love me? Do you not love me?”

Éowyn looked into the eyes of this wonderful, kind and gentle man and it was as if a light finally broken through the clouds that had surrounded her. She could see him for all that he was and all that she had always wanted. She knew that now. Her eyes shone as if lit from within, “Yes! Faramir, Son of Gondor. I do love you! I love you!”

Faramir’s heart burst into a thousand little bright stars as he gazed into her eyes hearing the words he never thought he would hear, that he had never thought he was worthy of hearing. He leant down and kissed her there on the balcony of the Houses of Healing overlooking the City, there for all to see and not caring who saw. 

The Warden had watched from the doorway not wishing to intrude but also wishing to see the two hearts healed. It did his battered soul a great deal of good. To see these two lost souls find each other salved his healer’s heart.

The City saw their Lord Faramir kissing the White Lady of Rohan and they rejoiced for he was a favorite of the City. Joy struck the hearts of those who saw the kiss.

Faramir looked at his lady. His heart had found the shelter it had always searched for in Éowyn’s arms. He was home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! Hope all who read it enjoyed it. I really enjoyed writing it! 😊 A/N: Again I will say that throughout this story I have used lines from the Book or Films but did not specifically mark them as I have in the past, this time I felt it interrupted the flow of the story. But again I wanted to acknowledge they are in the story. Their story continues in "Leaving Home; Coming Home."


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